


What You Bring To My Life

by DilynAliceBlake (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Empath John, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 12:05:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3977398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/DilynAliceBlake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meet someone who is supposed to be important to you, gain a color in the spectrum.  Fairly straightforward.  Or it would be.  If Sherlock were normal and John weren't an empath bombarded by new colors his entire life, whether or not they had anything to do with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Usually the colors came one at a time, important people inspiring the revelation of a new one. Most boys Mycroft's age had three or four or even five shades or hues already revealed to them by now. At the not so humble age of seven, Mycroft was only capable of seeing one. He had not made friends among his peers, or none close enough to inspire color; and no particular role model had inspired any fervor or passions in him.

The color Mycroft could see was a very pale, almost watery blue. It was the color of the sky in early mornings, and Mycroft always rose early to watch until it faded back to what he had been told was not so much /gray/ as the absence of color. This blue was also, incidentally, the color of his mother's eyes, as well as the ice pack which she pressed to his forehead the first time he was sick, cooing sweet nothings and reassurances to him as he was in the throes of fever at a very impressionable four.

At first he had thought he was hallucinating, but when his mother had realized what had happened and explained it to him, Mycroft was struck by the realization that most people were born with colors for their parents. But his had never treated him as if something were wrong with him. Had, in fact, loved him without the guarantee that he wasn't some defect.

Mycroft still did not have a color for his father. It was not for any lack of attachment, and Mycroft took great pains to assure his father of his fondness for him. He would always get his hair ruffled and a reassurance that nothing could make him love Mycroft any less. Seeing the warmth in his eyes, Mycroft was forced to believe him, but did not understand it.

Did not understand it until, at the somewhat jaded age of seven, he saw his baby brother for the first time. And when his wide, glossy eyes changed from their mother's pale blue to an icy sea foam green, the color didn't fade from Mycroft's perception. What's more, he looked around startled at the abrupt addition of nearly every color. He could see the vibrant viridian green of a chair, and the rich purple of his mummy's scarf, and the jet black of Sherlock's hair. No softer tones or muted neutrals were available to his purview, but that was insignificant. There was no documented case of anyone ever gaining more than one color from one person, but that too was not of import. Even the new colors themselves didn't matter.

The only thing Mycroft really counted important out of the whole debacle was the meeting of Sherlock, and the vow Mycroft made to protect him.

"He looks so trusting," Mycroft whispered to his parents, awed.

"Of course he trusts you, Mykie," his mother huffed with a laugh. "You're his brother."

 

 

So Mycroft spent some years maneuvering his way into a position of power where he could protect Sherlock. In fact, Mycroft accumulated as much power as he possibly could through legal means, since earning his power  _illegally_  could potentially one day lead to Sherlock unprotected. Mycroft's happiest moment was when, as a toddler, Sherlock got locked out in the rain and Mycroft squeezed through a second story window and skidded down the roof to stand with his umbrella over both of them until their parents got home.

This inspired an excited rant from a lisping Sherlock about how Mycroft's umbrella and his suit were the same. Well, the "thame."

Sherlock's first color was navy blue, and even when his mother asked exasperatedly why he hadn't just  _unlocked the doors from inside_  Mycroft didn't regret his foolish hastiness when coming to Sherlock's aid.

Instead, he bagan carrying an umbrella with him constantly, and while it had its uses in social and political intimidation, its first purpose was as a comforting reminder.

Sherlock, at twenty and still with only four colors when most people ha a dozen by sixteen, was diagnosed as a high functioning sociopath.

When Mycroft heard he clenched the handle of his brolly and had the psychiatrist's career ruined.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Sherlock and Mycroft not always getting colors immediately is not the norm. They are unique and emotionally constipated and can change and determine destinies to an extent.

Sherlock's fifth color, at the rebellious age of twenty-three, was the silver of Sergeant Gregory Lestrade's hair, blurry through the high and accompanied by the distant thought that it would be a useful color to be able to spot in the case of a knife fight.

In exchange Lestrade got the medical aqua blue of the discarded needle cap and resigned himself to a future full of headaches.

 

 

Sherlock Holmes swooped into Molly Hooper's life bringing with him the strawberries and cream color of his winter flushed completion and a completely lack of any regard for her whatsoever.

Eventually Molly gave up on anymore than a friendship, and decided to give the friendship her best shot.

She gave him her number and said to text if he ever needed anything.

"To talk?" he sneered, cold and full of condescension.

"If you want," she said, with a nervous smile. "Or just, if you want to get into the lab, or I could text you about parts we get in."

Sherlock pocketed the number, and seemingly changed the subject. "What color is that monstrosity of a sweater?"

Used to his cruelty and questions for cases, she bit back any hurt. "It's pink. The online forums all say that pink is sweet, and soft..." She blushed at the comment he likely found air headed, self conscious.

"It is," said Sherlock. "Pink suits you."


	3. Chapter 3

John Watson was a child with a great deal of empathy. More, perhaps, than should be able to be held within a single person. When he was very little he used to delight in proclaiming proudly “Me too!” any time someone mentioned liking a particular color. His first day of school, when other people were discovering new colors along with new friendships, John smiled widely at the waves of emotion as they washed over him and each additional color he gained. Suzy Carmichael had a fuchsia hair bow. Leonard Perry had dark blue trainers. Elizabeth Sadie had six orange bracelets. John excited over reading the discreet color labels on various plastic items and being able to see and mentally match that color to its name. He sat reading the color chart while the other children introduced themselves to one another.

 

“How many can you see?” asked his teacher, in an attempt to make conversation. John crinkled his brow, a pout forming.

 

“Not all of them, yet. I want to.” The teacher laughed, and John didn’t quite realize how close he had just come to being discovered as different. He felt how happy the teacher was, her laughter singing and fizzing like little bubbles of joy through his veins, tickling at his heart.

 

“Can you see all of them?” Asked John, quite sincerely.

 

“No one gets to see _all_ the colors John. Just some, for the people that are important.”

 

John frowned. “ _Everyone_ is important!” he insisted.

 

“Well, yes,” his teacher conceded, “but the really important ones to **us** are the ones we get a color for. Did you get a color today?”

 

John pressed his lips together, suddenly worried. His teacher mistook his concern.

 

“Don’t worry,” she said. “You’ll probably meet them at recess, or during lunch. Then you’ll get a whole new color, and a friend, too!”

 

John was less excited. How was he supposed to know who his friend was supposed to be when he could already see so many colors? Any time he was nearby someone who got one, he got to see it too! Sure, it was fun, but how was he supposed to decipher which ones were actually _his_ colors?

 

John resigned himself to a life stumbling around like an idiot asking everyone if he was supposed to be important to them. Luckily, soon it became apparent that if someone got a color for him then he could just wait for _them_ to initiate contact, and when John got older he decided that all his abilities really meant were that he was better at helping people and had the chance to pick his own friends.  If someone didn't gain a color for John, and he made it seem like he got one for them, he could very easily score a hookup, pity date, or temporary girlfriend.  Who were they to deny him their influence in his life, if it was obviously going to make such an impact?

So as an army doctor John Watson was always amazingly fast at identifying the injury, always knew who to recommend for therapy, and, to his later embarrassment, earned the nickname "Three Continents."


End file.
